Power Term: A Secret Service Romantic Suspense Series (Power Play Book 5)

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  Without a legit evidence baggie, I finagle the cell phone down into an unused latex glove and tie the end to keep it from slipping out.

  “Here.” I toss our only lead onto the black leather seat. For a split second, I allow myself to appreciate the car and the care Smith’s obviously put into restoring it. “Find us something.”

  I barely have a second to lean back out of the window before the engine revs, tires squeal, and the classic car shoots into oncoming traffic like he has zero fucks to give about the possibility of a head-on collision.

  At my back, Tank’s deep voice snaps and directs orders. I watch him pace at a fast clip with his phone pressed to his ear, face in a deep scowl.

  I tap my own phone against my thigh in quick rhythm, matching my pulse. With a deep inhale, I tilt my face to the sky and close my eyes.

  I’m coming, Randi.

  Hold on, baby. I’m coming for you.

  Chapter Eleven

  Randi

  Everything aches. My bones, my skin, my head and ringing ears. After that initial neck-snapping punch to the face, the man who I still haven’t identified eased back—even further than he had before, if I believe what he told Shawn about not hitting me at full force. The smacks to the face and punches to the gut still hurt like hell, but they’re not nearly as bone-crunching and brain-rattling as that initial hit.

  What worries me the most is that after the third or fourth hit to the gut, it hurt to breathe deeply. Hell, it hurt to breathe at all because of the stomach shots, but this is different. There’s a pinch or a stabbing sensation every time my lungs fully fill with air, almost like a rib or something else is jabbing into it.

  I’ve lost count of how many times they’ve revived me either with smelling salts—which should be renamed as smelly salts because they’re nasty—or a quick adrenaline shot. Those I’m growing to like with the way they amp up my body enough to forget the pain for a few short minutes.

  After multiple punches, backhands, taunting, and threats, I still haven’t given in to Shawn’s request. And I won’t. Why does it matter at this point? I’m not getting out of this alive unless Trey finds me. And there’s a piece of me that’s taking sick pleasure in watching Shawn’s anger rise with my resistance to his demands.

  Does that make me a masochist? I’m not getting wet on the pain, just finding a sliver of joy in this fucked-up situation. So maybe that makes me an opportunist?

  “Opportunist masochist?” A sharp stinging sensation bites across my lower lip as I mouth the words, deepening a split along the edge.

  Thank goodness there’s no one to respond to my ramblings or give me hell for talking to myself. I’m finally alone after what felt like hours of being a human punching bag and thinking up creative ways to tell Shawn to fuck off before the two men stormed from the room.

  The moment the door slammed shut, I sagged in relief. In the movies, now is the time I’d figure out a way to escape the bindings holding me to the chair and bust out of here, rescuing myself.

  But that’s in the movies, and I’m no heroine.

  I’m trailer trash Barbie playing dress-up in DC. I’ve had a lot of time to think about the choices I made to bring me to this point. The two biggest life-changing decisions were going to Harvard and convincing Kyle to put me on the presidential ballot as his VP. Both are what set all this in motion. Or maybe it was dreaming of having a better life away from the trailer park I grew up in that started all of this.

  Whatever it was, put me here.

  Fate? Destiny? The plotting of a sociopath?

  Call it whatever, but it doesn't change the outcome. Or the good I’ve done since arriving in DC or the good that will continue to be done once I’m gone from office—either dead or replaced during the next election. Not going to lie, my hope is on the latter.

  Plus, on top of all the good I’ve done while in DC, I met him.

  Trey Benson.

  Mischievous, fun-loving, hot-as-hell Trey Benson. He’s mine, and I’m his. Even if I die today knowing my past choices could’ve kept me from all this pain, I’ll never regret a single one because they all led me to him.

  A single warm tear slips down my cheek, leaving a stinging burn in its wake as the salt aggravates the slices across my skin. I should’ve known someone like me wouldn’t be allowed a happily ever after.

  All I want is one more kiss, one more smirk, the feel of his protective arms wrapped around me. Just once. Half a second is all I’m praying for. It’s all I’ll need to say goodbye.

  Hot dry air wafts across me with the opening of the door, moving the few strands of hair that aren’t stuck to my sticky skin, but I don’t look up. Lids drooping, I continue to stare unseeing at the cracked floor now dotted with drops of crimson.

  Soft murmurs reach my ears along with the stomp of feet. Something gentle yet firm slides beneath my chin, raising it off my chest until I’m staring into a set of searching eyes.

  My breaths rattle in my lungs. “Don’t do this,” I rasp. “You see it. See he’s crazy. Let me go, please.”

  The corners of his eyes wrinkle. He breaks the intense gaze to scan my beaten face, no doubt appraising the work he’s done so far.

  “I’ll kill you, end it now before I leave.” The words are low, muffled through the fabric wrapped around his face.

  “No thank you?” In my attempt to shake my head, it lolls to the side, my chin slipping off the two leather glove-covered fingers holding me steady. His grip tightens, keeping me upright. “He can’t win.”

  “Protect yourself. Give the fuck in.” There’s an urgency in his voice, one that hasn’t been there before now.

  “I have to protect them.”

  “Who?” I swear his head angles in a curious tilt.

  “Everyone.” Exhaustion makes my words slur, or maybe it’s the swollen lips and blood clotting in my mouth. “I swore to protect.”

  “You’re a fool,” he hisses.

  Looking him dead in the eye, I summon what courage and defiance I have left. “No. I’m the president, and I don’t negotiate with assholes.”

  The door swings open, banging against the wall before slamming shut. With zero energy left, I can’t physically turn to identify who’s entered. Instead I cut my eyes to the left and search my periphery to find the asshole himself stomping back into the room.

  “I’ve misjudged your tolerance for pain, Trailer. We’ve discussed, and it’s time to change tactics.” I stop tracking Shawn’s calculated steps to search the gaze of the man still crouched in front of me. Eyes narrowed, he stays silent. “We’ve decided to… force you.” Shawn’s Joker-like smile spreads up his cheeks, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  A chill races down my spine at Shawn’s ominous choice of words and the almost desperation emanating from the mystery man.

  “No,” I whisper. In my gut, I know what Shawn’s referring to, and I’m not sure I’ll stay strong if one of them forces themselves on me. The pain in my face will fade, my ribs will mend, but the mental damage from being raped by my abductor and captor might never heal—if I live long enough, that is.

  “Please,” I beg the man in front of me. Saliva drips off my trembling split lips. Something in the way he’s holding back, not as overly excited like Shawn, makes me wonder if he’s not as keen on this new turn of events. Tears leak down my cheeks as I tug at the restraints, this new horror giving me a shock of desperation-laced panic and making me thrash, cutting the plastic farther into my skin. “You said you weren’t like your friend. Please don’t do this. Kill me, hit me, but not that.” My cries turn into sobs, strangling the words to nearly unintelligible.

  The man stands from his crouched position and faces Shawn. “I told you I’m a mercenary for hire,” he states. “I will torture, kill, hunt, and threaten, dishing out whatever the client paying wants, but not that—not what you’re asking. I draw the line at lowering myself to a rapist.”

  “You are who I pay you to be.” I flinch at the vehemence in Shawn’
s bellow.

  “Just let me kill her, get this over with, and we’re done here.”

  “You’re the employee, you fool. I hired you. I pay you. You do not tell me what to do.” Nose to nose, Shawn’s yelled words echo off the cinder block walls. “Fall in line or you won’t get the last of the payment. I have more planned for her after this.” His dark eyes find mine from across the room. “Others who will be more than happy to have their fun with our little president.”

  I’m a blubbering mess, begging for the man not to do it, to hit me instead or just leave. But one thing I won’t allow to cross my lips is the surrender to Shawn’s demands.

  The arguing voices fade into the background as I mentally curl within myself, frightened of what’s to come. The door opens, a waft of hot air drying my tearstained cheeks. A bolt of hope stutters my heart at the thought that it’s Trey breaking down the door, finally here to save me. But it’s not. The man with his face still covered stands with his hand on the door, back to the room, pausing half in and half out when Shawn calls out to him.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  “Keep your damn money. My final payment of this contract will be seeing that bastard Benson dead at my hands. Do what you want with her. I did my part, and now I’m out.” Without turning the man continues into the larger part of the abandoned warehouse disappearing as the door falls shut with its own weight.

  Shawn’s dark chuckle at the man’s response chills my blood and churns my stomach. “Sounds like your boyfriend has made a bloodthirsty enemy.” He sighs and dusts off his hands. “That bastard leaving saved me a million dollars. Too bad for you it didn’t save you from shit. The others will be here soon. Then we’ll start the real fun.”

  My heart races, thundering in my chest as he steps closer. The vileness in his eyes, malice in his smile, and genuine hate in his dark aura have me flinching back, doing anything to put distance between me and the sinister man, but there’s nowhere to go.

  With far too much enjoyment, Shawn slips on one blue latex glove before tugging one on the opposite hand. The legs of the chair he once occupied scrape along the rough floor as he drags it close. His gaze never leaves mine as he folds into his seat, our knees brushing.

  “All you have to do is make the call to Pierce,” he mutters. Those dark eyes dip to my lips before tracing lower, leaving a dirty feel in their wake. “I can’t say I wasn’t hoping it would come to this. I’ll find my own enjoyment watching them break you.”

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip in an attempt to keep my terror-filled tears at bay.

  A barely there touch ghosts across my road-rashed knee, eliciting a pathetic whimper even with my jaw locked and lips sealed. The countless scrapes along both legs, from the wreck, fighting my captors, and rolling around like a rag doll in a trunk, snag the soft latex glove as the tip of a single finger tracks higher. At the edge of my bloodied jean shorts, two fingers dance along the hem, dipping beneath before retreating just as quickly.

  A scream builds in my chest, desperate to be let loose, making my revulsion known. But I clamp it down, sealing my lips even tighter and breathing hard through the one nostril that’s not clogged with tacky blood. I will not give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream, of hearing exactly what his touch does to me.

  Those same two fucking fingers fiddle with the top button of my shorts where it still hangs open from my earlier bathroom break.

  “Convenient,” he mutters. “Did you two start the fun before I got here, hmm?”

  The tendons and muscles along my neck protest as I twitch my head left and right.

  “Good. That’s good.” The hem of my shirt rises just enough for him to dip beneath. “I want to hear all your screams,” Shawn whispers in my ear. Nothing in the world could hold back the desperate cry of agony that erupts from my soul and pours past my parted lips. “Make. The fucking. Call.”

  Make the call.

  Make the call.

  It could all end. Right here, right now. I wouldn’t have to endure another second with him too close. Wouldn’t have to temper the revulsion rolling in my stomach or the dark thoughts that are racing through my mind. All I have to do is make a simple call. A difficult decision, a simple act.

  But … then what?

  It doesn’t feel right. Something is keeping me from folding, from giving in despite my body begging me. Maybe not something. Maybe a someone. Trey. I know he’s out there searching for me, and he will come. He will always come for me. I just have to stay strong a little longer to give him time.

  I have to believe in him.

  “No.” The word is a hiss as it passes through my clenched teeth.

  With a rage-filled yell, he wraps a gloved hand around my throat and squeezes. The pressure triggers my instinct to fight back, both arms twitching in earnest, desperate for release. But still I don’t scream, don’t make a sound as I glare right back at Shawn, pouring as much hate and loathing and disgust into our stare-down as I can muster.

  “You fucking cunt,” he screams in my face. Spit sprinkles across my cheek, but still I don’t look away. “You’re nothing—nothing—compared to me. You do not deserve the role that was handed to you by that fucker Birmingham.”

  I’m sorry. What?

  Okay, so now I know my line.

  Call me a cunt, talk about raping me, beat me to shit. But tell me something was handed to me? To Randi fucking trailer trash Sawyer?

  Hell. To. The. No.

  “You listen and you listen good, you pompous piece of shit.” My voice is strong, my words like a damn whip. “I’ve worked my ass off my entire life. Scraping by, doing whatever I could to make a better life for myself and my daughter. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has been handed to me. So get your pink panties out of your ass and realize you fucking lost your shot to a hell of a woman who is twice the man you are and will ever be.”

  My nostrils flare as heated blood pumps through my veins, warming my skin and causing sweat to build along my neck and forehead once again.

  Two seconds. That’s what it takes for him to process my declaration.

  Three seconds. That’s what it takes for him to shove against my neck so hard that my windpipe almost snaps from the pressure and the chair rocks backward on the two back legs.

  My eyes widen as the sensation of falling flips my stomach and steals the little air left in my lungs. Shoulders tucked in tight, I lean forward as far as I can with my hands tied behind me to prepare for the impact I know is coming. The chair slams to the floor, my back smacking the metal immediately after. The force snaps my neck, whacking the back of my head against the unforgiving dusty floor. All the air whooshes from my lungs and stars spark behind my open eyes even as the darkness of unconsciousness creeps in.

  My head lolls to the side in time to see a tan loafer sailing toward my side. A scream crackles through the stale air, scratching and tearing out of my throat at the impact of his kick against my already battered ribs.

  “You think you’re fucking tough, do you? Have this all figured out how you’re the one with power?” A roaring evil laugh bounces off the walls. The toe of his loafer nudges my cheek until I’m facing the ceiling where his sneering face looms over me. “I’ll have him fuck you in the ass dry, how about that? Make him bleed you from the inside out, shoving in deep until you’re hoarse from the screams.” The slight movement of him adjusting his hardening dick catches my eye. Bile slides up my throat, burning as it settles just behind my tongue before I can swallow it back.

  “I’ll even record it for that rent-a-cop boyfriend of yours. Let him relive this over and over again, knowing he couldn’t do shit to stop it. Because I’m the one with power here, Trailer. Not you, not him, not Birmingham. Me. And I will get my way even if I have to fuck it out of you myself.”

  The way his tongue swirls around his cheek, I know what’s coming before his lips purse and the thick wad of saliva and mucus splatters against my cheek and neck. Without the use of my hand
s, I can’t wipe the disgusting glob from my face; instead I’m forced to feel every centimeter it slides down my skin until it drips to the surface.

  Chest heaving, he continues to lord over me, contempt burning behind his dark eyes. His lips part, no doubt ready to let loose another stream of hatred my way, when his attention slides to the door. His brows furrow. “Where the hell are the others?” With a quick check down to me, he turns on his heels and makes for the single door.

  Only once he’s gone do I give over to the agony pulsing through every part of my battered body and tattered mind. He’ll be back with other men, which means the worst is yet to come.

  I swallow back the tears clogging my throat. If I’m to live through this, come out whole on the other side, I have to prepare for the horrors I’ll face under their ministrations.

  Focusing on a dark corner of my mind, I feed all the good, happy memories into the tiny corner, shoving them deep and preparing a happy cavern to escape to when the torture begins again. It’s not much, but it’s all I have.

  My tiny corner filled with Trey memories will have to work until the real one comes to save me.

  Chapter Twelve

  Trey

  Nowhere. We’re wasting valuable time and getting fucking nowhere. After an hour of calling in every favor to gather information on Whit, all I’ve found is validation that he’s a shady-ass politician who’s used his power and money to escape multiple accusations of assault, extortion, and one battery charge. All those cases were dropped; none of the accusations stuck or saw the inside of the courtroom.

  Fucking rich bastards thinking they own the damn world because of what they’re worth.